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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134025">Refeeding Syndrome</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cranky_Tanky/pseuds/Cranky_Tanky'>Cranky_Tanky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(that's a real thing!!!! it's really interesting), Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Harm, Touch-Starved, Violent Thoughts, Whirl is super tactile, actually this would be closer to CPTSD but that aint a tag yet :/, except a machine that delivers small electric shocks, it's sensory-seeking, like the same kind of way, self harm as a sensory seeking activity, that a human being left with no enrichment, whirl is touch starved, will continue to shock themselves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:53:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30134025</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cranky_Tanky/pseuds/Cranky_Tanky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Whirl is an extremely tactile mech, but nobody ever wants to touch him. The only way he can indulge his need for physical contact is when he's being beaten to a pulp in fights. He and Rung make a breakthrough in therapy about it, however, and Whirl has his eye on Swerve, even if he thinks he doesn't deserve to pursue a crush.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Swerve/Whirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Whirl</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>slight derealization warning: first set of ***</p>
<p>suicidal intrusive thought:: second set of ***</p>
<p>--------</p>
<p>in this, I specifically went the angle that Whirl is probably ADHD hyperactive with a SUPER SUPER SUPER high sensory threshold (he needs a lot of sensory stimulation to get a chemical reward). This combined with his impulsivity means that he's super sensory seeking, particularly tactile sensation.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Whirl's optic slammed against the ground with such force that his vision fritzed, but all he could do was laugh. The hand pressing it into the floor sang like one of those fancy Cybertronic Operas where it connected to his plating. Lit up his tacnet like fire. It was almost enough to make him howl and recoil, every circuit in contact sparking like a live wire, but all he did was strain into it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He reached up and dragged the other mech down into a crude, grappling hug -- partially so they couldn't get the maneuvering space to shoot him, and partially to feel more of that singing. In return, the mech brought his helm up and slammed it back down again, and again, and again, until Whirl couldn't hardly tell his own laughter from the other person's yellings and his own limbs from his attacker's, the way they were tangled together. In some kind of hilarious, pathetic parody of a lovers’ embrace, tangled together as if they would be finding comfort in each other’s frames while they slept, peacefully.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>heaven.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>until </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ultra Magnus showed up and arrested them both, getting them both in magcuffs so fast Whirl's already-spinning head did a triple axel dismount with a landing flair. Then, it was off to the brig.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl </span>
  <em>
    <span>haaaated </span>
  </em>
  <span>being arrested by Ultra Magnus. The bot was horribly professional. Avoided putting hands on him, standoffish, cold, impersonal. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl leaned back against him, tilting his head back to stare up at him. His back plating screamed deliciously at the contact. [[grab his tit lever and pull it’d be funny he’d squeal like a pig and punch you]] "Ya think the brig can hold me, Magnus?" [[pull pull pull </span>
  <em>
    <span>pull </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>pull]]</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>"Enough,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Whirl," Ultra Magnus cautioned, but put a firm hand on Whirl's shoulder the rest of the way that quieted him right down. The unvincible Whirl of Polyhex, brought low by some tacnet stimulation. What a laugh! He giggled outright at the humor of it all. [[pull the titty lever do it do it do it you could just do it right now]] </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>was… slightly less funny. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl shook his head aggressively to fling the thought out. As much as he threw his arms casually over mecha’s shoulders, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>backed off when they pushed him off, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>grabbed someone like that. Just because he liked touch didn’t mean he was that kind of freak, even if everyone thought he probably could be. Because he was every other kind of freak. Why not that one? [[hit the other guy again, he’ll kick the shit out of you]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>up,” Whirl told himself, significantly less buzzed, and much more put out. The intrusive, nagging, unbanishable thought wouldn’t leave him alone, playing replayed clips of his claws wrapping around the piece of plating jutting out at the top of Magnus’ chest and yanking for fun. Whirl didn’t want to do that. That’d be actually weird and gross and just -- no. [[do it anyway who cares]] He didn’t want to do it. He didn’t want to do it. So naturally, his brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. Over and over and over again until he was about ready to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream </span>
  </em>
  <span>as loud as he could in the middle of the brig hallway. But Ultra Magnus planted a firm hand at his back to push him into a cell and the contact grounded him instantly, quieting him down just long enough for him to get locked in.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sitting down in the cell, watching the pink bars cast a glow over everything in an eerie, distant light, Whirl felt his processor start to swim, like the pink light was syrup. [[not real. walk through the bars.]] He felt foggy, and his headache wasn’t helping. His vision fritzed and his throat constricted, as his brain, spark and t-cog all insisted he was actually dreaming, or strapped to some Senate table, all this -- the Lost Light, the war, the fight, everything -- being fake and unreal and all in his head, whether through shadowplay or just homemade. Jumping up, he started to pace, mumbling to himself and waving his arms just to feel the burn of activity in his joints and the air against his plating. But his tacnet was simultaneously understimulated and overstimulated, and the air seared him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>burned </span>
  </em>
  <span>him in its coolness. He stopped, pacing around, trying to control his breathing like Rung said. [[not real. fake]] </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Confusion swirled in his head. So he sat down and tried to think. His entire head was buzzing like static, foaming incomprehensibly to the point where he felt like he was sideways, or upside down, or the gravity of the ship had disengaged. [[punch yourself in the eye]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thankfully, the disreality began to fade after a bit -- the pink glow of the energon bars stopped looking so alien, and the dimensions of the ground and his surroundings eventually righted their proportions. Unfortunately, that then left Whirl with his boredom. It was quiet in the brig. Too quiet. And Whirl’s plating still itched like he was overcharged. And it was too quiet, too dim, the air was too nothing-temperatured, and overall he just felt the need to do something -- anything -- for some stimulation. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He glanced over to the energon bars. [[touch them]] They’d give him a pretty bad zap. [[touch them touch them]] He wasn’t going to touch them. [[touch touch touch]] He was not going to touch the bars. He was standing right in front of them now -- when he’d gotten up and walked over was irrelevant. He stretched out his claw, watching the wash of seemingly-innocuous pink fade over his claw. The metal was scuffed and dull. [[touch touch touch touch touch]] His claw stretched, reaching out, feeling the humming buzz of the energon bars just beyond, a mimicry of the sensation of someone else’s hands on him. Hypnotized, he watched as he lighted his claw very gently against the bar, entire body screaming [[yes yes yes </span>
  <em>
    <span>YES YES YES]]</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>ZAP!</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He flinched back as the bar shocked him, leaving a smolder against his clawtip. He hovered, staring at it, as the sting faded away, and then, still entranced, extended his claw towards it again. His spark pounded, his head rushing with a sudden burst of Yes and More and Good. It felt so good to just -- feel something. Physically. </span>
  <b>
    <em>ZAP!</em>
  </b>
  <span> Another recoil. He waited a few more seconds.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl didn’t know how long he stood there shocking himself over and over and over again, but by the time that a slim, off-white hand reached out to keep him from doing it one more time, his clawtip was blackened. The gentle touch of fingers on his claw burned harder than the bars. [[shove your claw into the bars burn it off]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl glanced up to see Rung’s worried face looking up at him. Rung was saying something, but the words were garbled, incomprehensible.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?” Whirl asked, shaking his head. “Wait -- hold on, what?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whirl,” Rung murmured, hand patting. “What’s the matter?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh -- uh, nothing, why?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Because, you were standing here shocking yourself when I walked in,” Rung said, eyebrows going up. “Over and over again. What’s going on?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh uh --” Whirl scratched the back of his helm, looking away. He mumbled. [[reach through and rip his antennae off]] No no NO! Whirl growled and shocked himself again to get that thought out of his head. It worked, but Rung yelped -- the charge from the zap zinging into his hand as well. “Oh, hell, docbot, I’m --” Whirl withdrew his claw completely to fiddle with them, wringing them. “Sorry. Bad thought.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s okay, Whirl,” Rung said, voice soothing. “Why don’t we sit down and talk about this? May I come in?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl gestured, ‘winking’ flirtatiously. “Mi casa es su casa. Come on in, Rung.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Rung chuckled, and clicked buttons on the keypad, opening the door to let himself in and sitting down across from Whirl. “Now -- what’s the matter, Whirl? This is your fifth fight this week. Ultra Magnus is… unhappy to say the least. Talk to me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, just me being myself!” Whirl crowed, gesticulating grandly. “Whirl, the mech with no known weaknesses! Guy looked at me funny, so I wanted to bash his face in. Ain’t that sexy, little dreamsicle bot?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please call me Rung, Whirl.” Rung’s voice was neutral. Whirl resisted the urge to crumple. He did not crumple. [[jump him]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, sorry.” Whirl sheepishly scratched the back of his helm again. His clawtip was still tender. “Anyways yeah he was askin’ for it so I bashed his face in.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh.” Rung raised one brow, frowning. “You don’t believe that, Whirl.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl paused, the air silent between them. “Nah,” he admitted, a little softer. “Not really.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So what’s the matter, Whirl? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[[call him an ornament. call him a drone.]] Whirl pointedly ignored his thoughts, as difficult as it was. He muted his vocalizer against the bubbling shout of “ORNAMENT” that was rising without his approval and kept it muted until the urge was gone. Rung just waited patiently. “I dunno,” Whirl finally said, helplessly. “Needed to throw some punches lately. I’ve got the itch.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>itch,</span>
  </em>
  <span> hm?” Rung hummed, pinching his chin in his fingers. “You’ve mentioned that sensation before. I assumed it was merely psychological in nature -- is there a physical component to it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Er --” Rung gestured, fumbling in embarrassment. “Is there a physical itch you get as well?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh… yeah, I guess. Feels good when people touch me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It does?” Rung looked even more thoughtful. That honest expression of his just made Whirl wanna spill his guts. “How so?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno,” Whirl said, helplessly. “Like -- like fire in my circuits, like it’s -- too much and not enough all at once. And it’s not like people actually would want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch </span>
  </em>
  <span>me, so… punching me is the next best thing. I like the ones who try and wrangle because they really just -- get all up in your business.” Whirl crunched his claws in, like he was squeezing something in front of himself, and glanced up at Rung [[squeeze him in half go over there and cut him in half]] “You get it? Anyways it’s like -- I can’t… I can’t get enough of it. And I don’t want to just be -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>groping </span>
  </em>
  <span>people or whatever, so y’know.” [[you’re disgusting nobody would want to even look at you]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I see. And -- why were you shocking yourself when I came in?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl shrugged, hugging himself briefly before he caught himself and gesticulated wildly, arms waving as his optic curled into a crescent. His body ached for his own touch as soon as he cut the self-hug short [[just want a hug what if someone could hug you]]. “You know!” he shouted, merrily. “I just -- it was all so quiet, and dim, and my plating was crawling because I just -- really had the itch. There was nothing else to do!” [[nobody would]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm…” Rung murmured, chewing on his thumbtip just slightly. “I --” he started, and stopped. Then he tried again. “Whirl, what do you know about sensory thresholds?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh? Plain Neocybex, docb -- Rung.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Rung nodded in acknowledgement. “So -- when I say ‘sensory threshold,’ I mean… how much stimulation can you take, at once? For instance -- tacnet, tactile stimulation. Audio stimulation, visual…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh uh -- well, you know I can take it all. No known weaknesses!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right,” Rung laughed slightly, with him. [[he’s laughing at you rip his head off]] “Of course. But -- I suppose my question is, is there a lower limit? Do you feel… mentally bored, all the time? Restless? Physically bored?” [[he’s laughing at you and you deserve it why would you rip his head off you deserve it]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh…” Whirl thought on it. “Yeah, actually.” [[fucked in the head untouchable]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Whirl,” Rung began, taking off his glasses. He was -- smiling. No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>beaming.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I might actually have a way to help you with this </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite </span>
  </em>
  <span>simply.”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-----------------------------------</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Raa-aaatchet!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Whirl singsonged, skipping his way into the medibay. Swerve was sitting in one of the chairs, where Ratchet was administering a booster vaccine. Whirl didn’t pay them too much mind as he just danced in a circle, optic curled into a merry crescent. “Ratchet Ratchet Ratchet!” [[Swerve’s blushing you humiliate him by existing]] </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool your jets, Whirl,” Ratchet grumbled. Swerve yelped as the shot went into his arm. [[kill Ratchet]] “I gotta give Swerve his booster. I’ll be with you in a second.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl sat on one of the beds and wildly swung his legs as he slouched, looking around as his claws kneaded the textured blankets underneath. They scratched at his claws. Finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ratchet was done and Swerve hurried out, casting a glance over his shoulder at Whirl. [[he thinks you’re repulsive]] Ratchet came over, crossing his arms. [[you are repulsive]] “Well,” the doctor said. “What’s the matter, Whirl? Spit it out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rung says I need one of these,” Whirl chattered, brandishing the note Rung had written for him. “He says it might help me stop punching people.” [[it’s just to make you stop causing trouble it’s not because he cares about you]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, really?” Ratchet grumbled. “And on that day I suppose I’d finally believe in Primus.” But he squinted at the note anyway, grumbling as he nodded. “Yeah, I have some of those,” he said. “You want a specific color?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl thought of the pink in Swerve’s cheeks when he busted into the medibay. “Red.” [[gross gross you’re creepy disgusting you’re going to hurt him]] “Red, please. A proper red!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes.” Ratchet straightened and grumbled, going to the supply closet and coming back with a deep, bartender-red heated massage blanket, “a proper red. This good?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[[snuggle in it right now and never get out]] “Yup!” Whirl chirped, snatching it. “I’ve got a date with my new therapy tool. Thanks a bunch doc!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Just make sure not to fall asleep with it on!” Ratchet shouted after him. “It’s -- it can plug into a wall or the battery pack that comes with it! The battery holds three hours charge!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl barely heard him, entire body itching with the desire to wrap himself up in this thing as quickly as possible. [[won’t work]] It was soft and plush, quilted with a hard, round disc of a machine in each square. [[you’re a monster]] </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Whirl had to try the keypad on his door 3 times before finally getting in, throwing himself on his bare mattress, and rolling himself up in the blanket so tight he could barely move. Already, where the blanket squeezed him he felt a wildfire blaze of warm tingling spread over him and he purred blissfully. It was another ten minutes before he realized he could plug it in to actually use it. Fumbling, blissed-out, he managed to extricate his arms and flop around until he plugged the cord into the wall, pressing the button on the corner of the blanket before retreating back into its confines.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The second it started moving, he knew he could never live without this thing again. [[weakness shred it]] All the little discs inside sent out magpulses that massaged like fists, and the blanket warmed, like someone’s frame cocooning him. Whirl offlined his optic and felt, muting his vocalizer so the annoying, obnoxious sigh he let out wasn’t audible. His tactile systems lit up like a tire fire, a sticky glaze of melted candy spreading over his entire tacnet. Whirl was practically purring just a few seconds in. He never wanted to leave the blanket ever. It felt like six different mecha were all touching him, all digging their hands into his body all at once. And the warmth felt like the warmth from a frame, roasting Whirl alive in the best possible way. His paint could’ve started bubbling and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t have unwrapped himself from the blanket. He drifted off finally snug, the itch in his plating sated -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>comfortably so </span>
  </em>
  <span>-- for the first time that he could remember. For the first time since his life was filled with ticking and gears and tiny, tiny little pins.</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>----------------------------------------------</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see you like my suggestion,” Rung chuckled softly, gesturing. Whirl sat across from him, clasping the blanket around his shoulders, using the battery pack to keep it on. “I had a feeling that might help.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How the hell did you know?” Whirl demanded, accidentally coming off aggressive, harsh. [[he knows]] “Er -- not trying to be mean, Eyebrows.” [[your thoughts he’s heard them]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, Whirl,” Rung said, gently. [[hideous sickening vile]] “And I understand what touch starvation feels like. When you were describing your desire for touch and the ‘itch’ you felt, it struck me in quite the stroke of genius. I’m genuinely delighted we could make this breakthrough. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>far </span>
  </em>
  <span>more </span>
  <em>
    <span>sensory seeking </span>
  </em>
  <span>than I am, so I’m glad this could cross your sensory threshold.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not weird I carry it around all the time?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No more so than anyone else on the ship. By all accounts, Whirl, this is a stellar coping mechanism. I’m overjoyed it’s worked so well for you. As a matter of fact, if this is working to make you feel better, I would </span>
  <em>
    <span>encourage </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to keep it on your person and pull it out to use as needed.” Rung smiled, gently, softly. [[steal his glasses]] Whirl’s claws twitched and he sunk further into his blanket, but it couldn’t solve everything. The impulse to lunge across the distance between them and snatch Rung’s glasses off his face was still there.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rung took off his glasses, and wordlessly handed them to Whirl, sitting back in his chair as Whirl gently fiddled with them. [[crush them crunch them break them]] Suddenly nervous he wouldn’t be able to control his own body, Whirl immediately handed them back, free claw twitching. Rung, without comment, gracefully took them back again, putting them back on. [[call him a service droid]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I am not going to do that,” Whirl hissed at himself, claws clicking. He sunk further into his blanket, which helped a little, but the anxiety was still there. Frustration bubbled in him. Wasn’t this thing supposed to help?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do what, Whirl?” Rung asked, ever-gentle.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Whirl sulked. He couldn’t exactly tell Rung, because to call him a service droid would be the most disgusting thing Whirl ever did to him. And that was no way to treat a friend. Especially one who had been far kinder than Whirl ever, ever deserved, in a million billion years. [[shoot yourself]] “One of those intrusive thought thingies.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah.” Rung nodded.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I hate them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They scare me,” Whirl whispered, almost inaudibly, trying to retreat into the warm, massaging blanket. Most of his sessions with Rung were fun and head-shrinking games, but every once in a while Whirl would bare his spark. “I shouldn’t… be around people.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why is that?” Rung asked, neutrally. “Why do you think that?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna really hurt someone,” Whirl murmured. “I don’t actually -- like hurting people, Rung.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe you.” Rung hummed, nodding as his glasses dimmed just slightly -- he was shutting his eyes behind them [[he can’t even look at you]] “I believe you, Whirl.” [[disgusting gross nauseating violent monster beast]] “But -- remember what we’ve discussed about intrusive thoughts?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not my intrusive thoughts.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Correct.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I almost crushed your glasses,” Whirl blurted. “I’ve thought about killing you three different ways since I got here and myself once. I almost called you a service droid.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And yet here I am,” Rung said, tender as ever, [[untouchable]] “here you are, and here my glasses are. And you refrained from calling me a droid. That looks to me like you’re batting four for four, Whirl.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“They never stop,” Whirl said, softly, into the plush fabric. “Constantly.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s alright, Whirl,” Rung assured, taking his glasses off to stare Whirl in the eye. “That doesn’t make you a bad person.” [[slimy rat bastard he’s lying to you]]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Whirl sulked. “Whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Really, Whirl. I mean it.”</span>
</p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Swerve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Swerve ruminates way too hard, about past relationships, and possible future ones. Whirl propositions him. Sort of.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me, giving Whirl my fear of my intrusive thoughts and giving Swerve my massive self esteem issues around being too loud and "too much": FIGHT (actually, kiss)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Ah, Whirl,” Swerve said, nervously. The copter came in, wrapped in that red blanket he’d been carrying around lately, and folded himself onto one of Swerve’s barstools, laying his head down on the table. Swerve tried not to blush. If he was being honest, he had a bit of a thing for the copter, especially since Whirl had started staying after hours to chatter at him. If Swerve didn’t know better, he’d say the copter was lonely, but he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>talking at people. “What can I get you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“One of those fizzy blue numbers,” Whirl sighed, the blanket moving on top of him. “Thanks, little buddy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Comin’ right up.” Swerve went to go make it. Truth be told, he probably should’ve been scared of the copter, but Whirl didn’t really frighten him. Made him apprehensive sometimes, maybe, but who on the ship didn’t. Swerve muted his vocalizer to keep from babbling to himself, his voxcoder clicking softly. He pointed the nozzle inside Whirl’s cup and let it rip, filling the clear glass cup with foaming, fizzy blue. His thoughts were running a mile a second, thinking about how red the blanket was and how there was </span>
  <em>
    <span>no way</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was anything other than a coincidence that it almost matched Swerve’s plating because that would be totally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>patently </span>
  </em>
  <span>ridiculous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was flushed bright pink when he slid Whirl’s drink over. Whirl reached for it, and then his claw twitched, so he put it back under the table and just leaned forwards to extend his proboscis into the drink. Swerve just hurriedly busied himself with making drinks for the regulars at one of the tables when they asked for another round, beaming and waving and laughing along with them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as he turned back around the smile dropped from his face. He just cleaned glasses, monitored the tanks, checked on the carbonation tanks, trying to busy himself. He could feel Whirl still at the bar behind him, but it was taking a backseat to the yawning emptiness that was beginning to crest. Every night, same routine, same smiling faces. It was nice, but Swerve was always acutely aware that he could’ve been replaced with a droid that had a smiley face on screen and about 20 randomized, pre-loaded responses and people wouldn’t even notice the difference. He’d tried to get comfortable with that -- after all, he could tell all the jokes he liked and it still wouldn’t change the fact -- but… it’d been kinda difficult.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was so preoccupied in his thoughts, running on autopilot, that he barely noticed that it was time for last call. Scrambling, he shouted for last call, and it looked like tonight was going to be a slow one, because most everybody packed it in. Swerve felt a pang as everyone filed out, nobody even casting him a second look. It wasn’t like they spoke to him anyways, why would he miss them?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl was the only one left at the counter, still in his blanket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Last call, bud,” Swerve said, keeping his cheer up for Whirl’s sake. Nobody liked a sad bartender. “Rusted in place? You haven’t moved all night!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah,” Whirl said, still drinking with his proboscis in his cup. “The head-shrinker suggested this blanket thingy -- some scrap about me being ‘tactile’ and ‘touch starved’ or something. Either way I like it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, that’s really great,” Swerve said, and meant it. He leaned on the bar, beaming. “I’m glad it’s workin’ for ya. I’m gonna close down soon though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Do you want me to --?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um…” Swerve’s smile faltered, just momentarily. “Nah… you can stay if you wanna chat. I’m always up to listen!” the bartender laughed brightly, spreading his arms. “S’what I’m here for!” He quickly scurried to the other side of the bar to start wiping it down, and to hide his wobbling lower lip from Whirl until he could get it under control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl was quiet for a second. “How about you, little buddy? How’s your night been?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been here half the night,” Swerve laughed, tried not to show how forced it was. “You know how my night’s been!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You seem a little quiet tonight.” Whirl sighed and rested his arms on the bar, leaning on them. “Come to think of it,” he giggled, high-pitched, “you talk a lot, but you don’t actually say all that much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gee, thanks,” Swerve belly-laughed, but he didn’t feel it in his belly. “Seriously, no complaints here. Just -- runnin’ my bar, livin’ my life, goin’ on the quest. Anyways -- you. We’re talkin’ about you! What do you want to talk about?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl just -- stared at him, silent for an uncomfortably long moment. “You,” he finally said. “I like it when you talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ohh, gotcha.” Swerve nodded. “Okay, well I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>be a chatter. Let’s see -- did you know that Ultra Magnus came in for another inspection last week? At first those made me just. Really mad, y’know? Like he thought I was some kinda sleaze who couldn’t run a proper bar,” Swerve babbled, waving his hands. He could feel himself losing control of his vocalizer and it scared him, like he’d never, ever be able to shut up and Whirl would just get up and walk out. “But -- he’s always so nice, and it kinda made me think about how nervous he is all the time. Guess it’s hard feeling like you have to keep everyone safe! Wouldn’t know -- I’m so tiny and I can’t even shoot a gun. Well, aside from My First Blaster.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl laughed, antenna twitching. “Yeah! You look so cute with your little fingers around that thing. Brainstorm was good to give you that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve flushed brightly. It was probably condescending. That was okay! The idea of him with a gun was pretty ridiculous. Or Whirl just liked guns. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or Whirl just likes </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>you,</em>
  </b>
  <span> his evil, horrible inner voice whispered at him. He brutally silenced it.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Nobody</span>
  </em>
  <span> liked him; they just laughed at his jokes. And that was okay! It was what he was there for. “Uh,” he managed. “Y-yeah! Well, my aim has gotten a little better since I started using it…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, that’s cool!” Whirl cackled, optic curling into a happy crescent. “Hey, in a few million years when you can hit a target, you could go shooting with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve laughed along nervously, twiddling his fingers. The thought of shooting with someone even in the same room as him made him want to throw up. What if he -- somehow took off </span>
  <em>
    <span>Whirl’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> head?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl seemed to deflate. “You seem off tonight,” he said. “Real quiet. And not ‘cause you don’t wanna talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve almost blurted that he wanted to talk, he wanted to talk</span>
  <em>
    <span> so bad</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- and he wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk, he wanted to connect with someone, and the looks that Whirl had been giving him across the bar night after night -- searching, reaching -- had made Swerve want to connect with him. Instead, he physically slapped his hands over his mouth, before taking them away with a nervous laugh. “Really? Guess I must be tired.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl’s optic narrowed, into a thin yellow line. “I wanna hear you,” Whirl said. “I’m not good at that mushy scrap but I like to hear you talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nobody likes to hear me talk,” Swerve blurted out, laughing dismissively. “It’s like a whole thing. People like my voice and my jokes -- actually they just like my jokes -- but nobody wants to hear me </span>
  <em>
    <span>say </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well,</span>
  <em>
    <span> I do!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Whirl shouted, frustrated. “Dammit, I just -- sorry, sorry, I just -- I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>hearing you talk! And </span>
  <em>
    <span>say things!</span>
  </em>
  <span> And I like your jokes too but -- it’s because they come from </span>
  <em>
    <span>you!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Panting, Whirl just retreated back into his blanket, looking away as his optic drooped, the crescent bowing down rather than up. “Anyways,” he muttered, “Sorry, that was -- the yelling, and the -- I can just. Go.” He started to get up, unfolding himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>“Please don’t go!”</em>
  </b>
  <span> Swerve blurted, suddenly desperate. His spark pounded, whirling like a dervish, and his fuel roared in his ears. Whirl froze, glancing back at him. “Please don’t --” Swerve’s voice almost broke and he swallowed, resetting his vocalizer, trying again. “Please don’t go,” he whispered. “I’ll --” he got louder again, coolant beading on his forehead. “I’ll tell all the jokes you wanna hear! Just -- um -- don’t. Leave. Yet, I mean. Unless you have to be somewhere! Wouldn’t wanna hold you up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl stared at him for a moment and then slowly sat back down, situating himself again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did the cookie say to the doctor?” Swerve blurted, mentally facepalming. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, that was a real gold-prize-winner right there. Great going, bud. You’re really making a convincing case here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I dunno, what?” Whirl asked, humoring him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m feelin’ kinda crummy,” the bartender responded, and Whirl thought about it for a silent, agonizing moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“HA!” the copter burst out, plating rattling. “Good one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No it wasn’t,” Swerve whispered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” Whirl agreed, still laughing. “But I like your bad jokes. Anyways.” He leaned on the bar again. “Tell me what’s wrong, Swerve. You seem really down.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, me?” Swerve smiled, putting his hands up, but the Look Whirl gave him speared him right to his spot. “Um --” he opened and closed his mouth, again and again, before finally just. Cracking. Like a dam. “My… my nickname at the Autobot Academy was ‘Shut the Hell Up,’” he finally managed, drooping. He pulled out a rag and started wiping down the bar to give his shaking hands something to do. “Swerve and his motormouth, that was the joke. Or, </span>
  <b>
    <em>I</em>
  </b>
  <span> was the butt of those jokes. I figured out a few years in that even if everyone found me so annoying they had to leave the room when I talked, they loved it when I told jokes.” Swerve was whispering again. “Especially if they were about me. Then it wasn’t, ‘Shut the Hell Up,’ it was, ‘hey, uh -- Swipe!’ or, if I was lucky, my name. You know what Red Alert said to me when I signed on?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Whirl was deathly quiet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He told me he’d let me come on if I agreed to never speak.” Swerve murmured, polishing a spot that was already gleaming. “All I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>is speak. I can’t ever</span>
  <em>
    <span> shut up.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why’d he even bother letting me on if he knew that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna kill him,” Whirl decided loudly, slamming his claws on the counter and sat up, uncrumpling himself. “I’m gonna murder him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am,” Whirl nodded, starting to get up. “I’m gonna pull out his little morgue drawer, revive him, and kill him again. Yup! That’s it. Whirl’s gonna do a murder.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whirl, please!” Swerve snapped, and laughing in spite of himself. “It’s not a big deal, really!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a big deal!” Whirl insisted, gesticulating. “You’re -- you’re nice and funny and all you do is try and help people and listen to all our problems while people treat you like you don’t even exist.” He crossed his arms, blanket falling off his frame. “Makes me mad. Makes me mad enough to -- to shoot someone!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t shoot</span>
  <em>
    <span> anyone,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Swerve laughed. “You wanna fix it? Just keep me company.” The sentence was out of his mouth before he could process it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, that I could do,” Whirl giggled, sliding back into his seat. “Anyways, I mean it, little buddy. I like listening to you! I’m not good at the mushy stuff but -- you make me wanna </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>mushy stuff.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve flushed so hard his fuel pounded in his audials. Whirl definitely just meant as friends. There was no way that someone could ever, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>like him -- like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’d thought Skids had -- he was ready to jump in with both feet with Skids, if he was being honest, but no.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, hell,” Skids had said, scratching the back of his neck. “Um -- sorry, guy, but… I’m not really… into you. You’re nice and everything! But I’m not… yeah. You’re really nice, but you’re a little too… god that’s rude, I’m not trying to be rude -- I guess I just mean that, you freak out a lot, and you talk way too fast for me sometimes, and I just can’t keep up with you, man. You’re a great friend, but you deserve someone who can keep up with you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, that’s fine!” Swerve had chirped. And it was fine! Skids didn’t have to be into him. It just… stung, a little. And he couldn’t fault Skids for not being into him. Skids was even really nice about it! Better than some. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mushy stuff,” Swerve stammered, laughing. “C’mon, Whirl, s’not nice to be pulling my leg like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not,” Whirl sulked, starting to turn away again. “I get that I joke around a lot, but -- fine. I get it.” He brightened up a bit, laughing. “Ah, what am I saying. You’re right, bud. You’re way outta my league. Cool and fun and -- nice. Besides.” Whirl clicked his claws, leaning back to pick his blanket up off the ground. “I’m not exactly prime courtmate material. You need someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>waaaayyy </span>
  </em>
  <span>prettier hangin’ off your arm.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve flushed even harder, fumbling for words. How had he managed to fuck up so bad while trying to joke around -- go along with the joke he thought Whirl was playing? It wasn’t the first time someone had pretended to be into him for laughs. But would Whirl do that? Whirl was violent, and over-the-top, and loud, and joked around, but he was never… cruel. Swerve got the feeling he’d just fucked up irreversibly. “Uh --” he managed. “No it’s not that it’s -- oh, god, I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whirl stopped, glancing at him. “Huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s just that --” Swerve giggled, shrilly, nervously. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry man it’s just that whenever people are into me it’s usually a prank and the last time I was into someone he was like nah no way and that’s fine ya know but it still kinda hurts so I maybe assumed you were just into me for some kinda prank but if you aren’t I’m a total dickhead-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Woah, woah, stop,” Whirl said, waving his claws. “First of all, that’s fucked up that people pretended to be into you for a joke. Second of all, I totally get it. You think people never pretended to be into me? I’m pretty sure there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>a video floating around the Wreckers of Impactor pretending to ask me out while someone else filmed it because everyone was drunk and thought it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>soooo </span>
  </em>
  <span>funny to ask the ugly empurata out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve drooped. “That’s terrible,” he murmured. “That’s awful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and so’s a bunch of nobodies who can’t even hold a flashlight to you doing the same thing,” Whirl insisted, leaning forwards to aggressively poke Swerve in the chest, for emphasis. “You deserve like, laying over someone’s lap and getting fed bonbons and all that scrap and like, snuggles all day long. Like I said! Mushy stuff!” Whirl’s bright yellow optic bored into him, so intense that Swerve was nearly hypnotized.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really?” He murmured, catching himself off guard.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Whirl shouted, gesticulating wildly. “You’re like -- the best! I like you a lot! You’re like, nice and funny and cute and hot enough to melt steel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve buried his face in his hands and squeaked, steam coming out of his audials. “Stop it,” he moaned, mortified. “You can’t mean that!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You tellin’ me what I mean, Box-Bot?” Whirl said, leaning forwards, eye wide and bright. “Huh?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“N-no!” Swerve said, shaking his head. “But --”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But nothing,” Whirl crowed, optic curving into a crescent. “If you’ll have me, you’re stuck with me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Swerve, in spite of himself, started laughing. He started laughing, and he couldn’t stop. He shook his head, waving a hand, and looking away, trying to communicate that he was laughing at himself, not Whirl. He ended up just sending an explanation over short-wave comms, and Whirl relaxed a little -- even giggling along with him. Finally, after both their chuckles died down, Swerve cast a glance under his brow at the copter, biting his lip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” he started, shyly. “First date next week?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Whuh --” Whirl’s optic boggled and he laughed. “Huh -- yes! Yes yes yes yes!” He jumped right off the stool, dropping his blanket again, and started to sing like he was in the Cybertronic Opera or something, except really, really overdone. Swerve laughed. Whirl was dancing now, a flailing, uncoordinated thing with lots of errant limbs and rattling plating. The blanket was pooled on the ground, deep red, just like Swerve’s plating. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe tonight was a good night after all. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
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